“I’m afraid so. I have two left feet, same as my son.” She glanced at Will when he opened his mouth to object. “Not you. Your brother.” She patted his hand for good measure. “But I like to think I know something about talent, and you have that in spades. It doesn’t shine, though, without hard work. I said a dozen years.”
“Fourteen,” said Ramsey. “I started at four and stopped when I graduated high school. I’d had enough by then.”
Sullivan set a Yuengling in front of her, passed a glass of white wine to Yvonne, and hugged his beer as he sat. “Enough of what?” he asked.
Ramsey thanked him for the beer. “Dance lessons.”
Ian distributed the bottles in his hands and returned to his wife’s side. “I had dance lessons. They didn’t take.”
Sarah looped her arm in his and leaned against him. “It’s true you’re no Channing Tatum, but then I’m no Missy Copeland.”
“Who’s Missy Copeland?” he asked.
Sarah straightened, patted his hand as she shook her head. “I’ll explain later.” To Sullivan she said, “Ramsey had fourteen years of lessons. She’s practically a professional.”
“Hardly,” Ramsey said. “Those lessons? They didn’t take.” This brought about some amused eye rolls and dry-as-dust chuckles and effectively ended this line of speculation and inquiry. Ramsey took a long pull from her bottle. The beer went down smooth and cool. When she set the bottle down, she saw that Mrs. Packard’s attention had shifted to her throat.
“I’ve been admiring your necklace,” Mrs. Packard said when Ramsey intercepted her stare.
“Now I’m in for it,” said Mr. Packard. “My wife’s knowledge of dancing may be suspect, but sheknowsjewelry.”
“Hush. Jewelry is an investment.”
“It is when you’re talking about Faberge eggs and the crown jewels.” He glanced at Ramsey’s multi-strand collar necklace and then at her. “Please tell her you found it at Macy’s.”
Ramsey laid her palm against the fine gold strands and diamond-set stations. “But I did find it at Macy’s,” she said. “On sale.”
Mrs. Packard’s eyes widened ever so slightly, clearly communicating her surprise. “Really?”
“I swear.” Ramsey held up her right hand. “Why? Does it look indecently expensive?”
Before Mrs. Packard could respond, Sarah Bode said, “Oh, it does. I’ve been admiring it too. It’s exquisite.”
Mrs. Packard nodded. “It is that. I was sure I saw it in Marco Bicego’s Masai collection.”
“Masai?” asked Ramsey. “Like the African tribe?”
“Yes. That was inspiration for it, or so I read.”
Sullivan turned, studied the necklace when Ramsey’s hand fell away. “I can see that.”
Ramsey felt exposed, but she smiled and was able not to cover her throat again. “The girl behind the jewelry counter didn’t mention that, so I don’t see how it could be a Marco Bazinga.”
Mrs. Packard smiled. “Bicego.”
Ramsey’s short laugh held a hint of self-deprecation. “Bicego. Of course. Nothing whatsoever to do with The Big Bang Theory.”
“No. But we all love Sheldon.”
That comment provided an easy segue into a conversation about favorite episodes, then favorite TV shows, and finally into a trivia contest where someone hummed a show’s musical opening and everyone else tried to match it to the show. The contest was not helped by the fact that Ian Bode was tone deaf. Apparently, he’d had lessons. They didn’t take.
They carried on, their laughter loud and sustained. Their table often drew the attention of other guests, including the mother of the bride. Ramsey thought that she may as well be hanged for a sheep as the lamb, and at the risk of spoiling her bad date streak or giving Kay Dobbs another reason to disapprove of her, she laughed exactly like a woman who was enjoying herself.
Because she was.
Ramsey turned to Sullivan when he stopped the car in her driveway. “You don’t have to open the door for me.”
“I’m sure you’re capable, but will you let me walk you to the front door if I don’t?”
